


Dog Tags

by Wordsy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blue Team, Chorus Arc, Friendship, Gen, RvB Bingo Wars, crash site bravo, graphic description of a ship crash, teammates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsy/pseuds/Wordsy
Summary: The problem with spaceship crashes always becomes clear after the dust has settled. Here’s the thing about falling from the sky and hitting the ground hard enough to fold the ship in on itself, like a burning cigarette ground into an ashtray:It doesn’t leave much behind in the way of human remains.Or, Wash finds himself collecting dog tags from the wreckage after the Hand of Merope crashes. Tucker and Caboose step up to help, because that's what teammates do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For RvB Bingo Wars - Angst square for the Blue Team card.

There is a small graveyard nestled in the brush behind the communications tower of Crash Site Bravo. Poking out between the thick leaves of jungle plants are an assortment of mismatched markers jutting from the dirt. There’s sections of pipe, a slice of the ship’s hull, stiff metal cable, remains of a stair, and even a rifle melted into a useless mess.

 

The worst part of spaceship crashes isn’t even the crash itself. Having survived two major wrecks, Wash thinks he has the right to talk.

It goes like this. If by some miracle you survive the hull ripping itself open and spewing its cargo into the void of space, the next trial is by fire. As the floating fortress streaks through the atmosphere, things heat up. It’s basic science: friction causes intense heat to the tune of 3000 degrees Fahrenheit. Burning through the atmosphere, the flaming wreckage of human innovation slams into the planet’s surface with enough force to crumple a military class ship like a tin can. Metal walls fold, circuits panels crack and roast, pipes snap and vomit their payload. Trailing smoke and debris, and tearing a long scar in the planet landscape, the whole structure comes to a screeching halt in a billowing cloud of dirt, rock, and plant life.

If you’re still alive by the end of this, the fun really begins. Those broken metal walls threaten to come crashing down. Shattered circuits reveal exposed electrical wires. Cracked pipes spill their contents – oxygen, or worse, fuel. The ship is already burning, so it’s not long before the explosions begin.

It takes a day and a half for the crash site to descend into an eerie silence. The first fourteen hours are filled with wailing alarms that fade one by one as the emergency generators run out of juice. The flames flicker out over the course of the day. But inside the ship, fires continue to smolder, fed by severed fuel lines, leaking oxygen tanks, and an assortment of smashed cargo. The wreckage creaks and moans as it settles into its shallow grave.

It’s not clear when the screaming stops. Ironic, considering during the first eight hours, that’s all you can hear. Once you put two and two together, and realize the source of the haunting sounds, not even the explosions can drown them out.

All you know is that it’s somewhere around the time the emergency alarms first begin to waver. At first, you’re sure it must be a trick of the ringing in your ears. But by the time the last mournful mechanical howl breathes its last, you know it’s true. The voices have stopped screaming, and the wails are gone too.

The problem with spaceship crashes always becomes clear after the dust has settled. Here’s the thing about falling from the sky and hitting the ground hard enough to fold the ship in on itself, like a burning cigarette ground into an ashtray: It doesn’t leave much behind in the way of human remains. Burned, crushed, or just obliterated, identify individuals is close to impossible. But not in the telling people apart sense.  More in the ‘was this smoking black heap in the corner once a person?’ sense.

After a spaceship crashes, you don’t gather bodies the way one would on a battlefield. You pick up pieces.

The first order of business involves guessing what’s human, and what’s the charred, melted remains of the ship. Sometimes it’s the smell that gave it away, but that’s only once a few days have passed. Or the realization that the ash coated shell casings on the floor are actually finger bones. Or the discovery of a charred uniform sleeve on one side of a room, and the rest of the shirt on the other.

 

 

At Crash Site Bravo, most of the time, it was the dog tags. As members of the military, everyone aboard the Hand of Merope wore a set. Even the sim troopers still had the ones they received upon being stationed in Blood Gulch. Neither Wash nor Carolina wore any, and this was just another item on the ‘Don’t Bring Up to Freelancers List.’

Whenever a set of dog tags was found, any and all nearby remains were collected. The pile was then interred in the steadily growing graveyard and marked with a piece of wreckage planted in the ground.

Like the crew, the dog tags all ended up in one place. Originally, the plan was to keep the tags with the individual remains - tied, hung, or even taped to each grave marker respectively. Every time a breeze swept through the crash site, the metal plates swayed and pinged against the mismatched headstones, playing an uneven, haunting song. But then the days since the crash began to add up, along with the graves. Keeping the tags together in case of rescue became another way of holding onto the hope slipping through the soldiers’ fingers like sand. It made sense. In the event someone finally heard their distress call, it would be easier to grab the tags and go. A rescue ship wouldn’t consider recovering human remains a priority. These dog tags might be the only thing returning to families.

Washington never made the decision to collect the dog tags, they just began to accumulate in the little cardboard box once used to hold shell casings. Once the box couldn’t be shut anymore, Wash shoved it to the back of his crate of belongings – which were few and far between. The few articles of clothing he owned didn’t help to hide the box of sparkling metal from his gaze. Once the cardboard sides tore open and spilled its contents across the bottom of the crate, Wash resigned himself to finding another resting place for the dog tags.

The tags stayed in a pile on his nightstand (the top of his crate of belongings) until he finally dug a rectangular tin box from the wreckage. With all the charring, it wasn’t clear if it had once been a file lock box, or a lunch box, but so long as the lid shut and hide the contents from view, Wash didn’t care. The tags went in the box and the box went beside his bed.

Somehow the box was so much worse. Sitting in a slice of moonlight cast through the window (hole in the wall cover with sheet plastic and tape) of Wash’s room, the box looked unnervingly coffin like. Washington rolled over to face the wall and ignored it, chastising his stupid overactive imagination and chalking it up to his lack of sleep.

Each morning and evening when he moved the box from the lid of his crate of belongings, the metal tags and chains slid against one another in a long rattle. No matter how carefully he picked it up, the contents still shifted – so loud Wash couldn’t believe no one else in the base heard it. The sound killed him. Like a hundred voices calling out at once. Like the screams from the fire ravaged ship.

But he couldn’t get rid of it. He found couldn’t tuck it away in his crate like before, or shove it to the shadows under the bed. When Wash did, he forgot. He forgot the number, and that was important, keeping track of the number of tags in the box. They would need it for when they were rescued. And the crew members in the graveyard needed him to remember because unlike the Freelancer, they had people who would notice their absence and wonder and worry over what had happened to their loved ones. So he couldn’t push it out of mind, because that meant forgetting the number, and that meant forgetting the innocent souls that died while he got to walk away from his second major shipwreck. What were the odds?

At first, just keeping the box in its place beside the bed was enough to keep the number in his head. But each time a new set was added (an every other day occurrence), Wash started to second guess. If his old number was wrong, then that meant the new number was twice as wrong. So he’d have to check, recount, just to be sure.

Eventually, even on days no new tags were added, Wash would lie awake in bed, willing himself to sleep just a few uninterrupted hours, and his gaze would wander to the box and he would lose the number in his head, just like that. And with no number in his head, there was no way he was going to sleep. So Washington would sit there on his cot, counting out the ash stained dog tags on his bedspread. Sometimes, even when he knew the number, he’d sit and count them because it was something to do other than stare at the shadows slinking across the ceiling until the sun rose.

Both Tucker and Caboose helped with the creation of the graveyard in their own way. Tucker and Wash brought the remains down from the ship, typically a job that required no heavy lifting thankfully, so Caboose didn’t have to see that part. Instead the hulking blue soldier cheerfully dug, and filled in the graves.

 

Despite the team effort, it was over a month before they finally talked about it.

“Fucking bullshit.”

Tucker’s words caused Wash to look up from where he was hammering a pipe into the ground as a new marker. The teal soldier was leaning on the handle of the shove, looking out over the uneven rows of graves. Having finished his part, Caboose had been excused to walk the canyon. The last few days had been some of his off days. Wash and Tucker were trying to give him space.

Wash looked back down to inspect his handy work, wobbling the pipe a bit to test if it was steady in the ground.

“It seriously is,” Tucker continued. “Fucking goddamn…it just sucks.”

“What?” Wash didn’t know what compelled him to ask. He already knew.

And Tucker knew that Wash knew, judging by the way the teal soldier was staring at him like he was stupid.

“This,” Tucker enunciated, sweeping his arm over the graves surrounding them. “It’s all fucking bullshit.”

Maybe ‘talked’ about the graveyard was too strong a word. ‘Danced around’ was more accurate.

Washington studied the fresh dirt beneath his boots.

“I know,” he sighed, so faint Tucker might not have even heard him.

The teal soldier huffed, shaking his head. “It’s not fair, I mean, the whole crew?” He looked out over the crude graveyard, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “How many have we pulled out already?”

One hundred thirty-two.

The clearing was perfectly still, not even a breeze to rustle the bushes. It wasn’t until Wash looked up and saw Tucker staring at him that the Freelancer realized he had spoken out loud.

The sim trooper raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Wash growled. He suddenly had no idea where to look or how to stand or what to do with his hands. “I count.” A three-year-old could have come up with a more strongly worded argument.

Tucker raised his hands in submission. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

The pair went back to staring in opposite directions. But wherever you looked, the view was always the same. Messy, scattered graves.

“A hundred thirty-two,” Tucker breathed.

Wash ground the toe of his boot into the dirt, digging at the soil. He didn’t glance up, but he knew Tucker was back to staring at him.

Finally, the teal soldier spoke. “You counted all the graves?”

“The dog tags,” Wash shrugged. “I count – counted them all.”

“You’ve got them,” Tucker speculated. Wash just nodded. “You’ve been collecting them this whole time?”

“Yeah,” Wash said warily, unsure why Tucker was intent on pushing the issue. “Why?”

The teal soldier scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know, I just… I thought, like, the reds had them or something.” He snuck a glance back at the Freelancer. “You never said anything.”

Wash’s brow furrowed. “Why would I?”

The sim trooper opened and closed his mouth once or twice, thoughtful eyes narrowed on Washington. The Freelancer shifted on his feet, getting the distinct sense he was missing something.

“I’m going to check on the ration numbers,” Wash announced. He was already turning and making his way through the maze of grave markers. “Put the shovel back with the rest of the tools.”

“I think Sarge took them.”

“Of course he did.”

That was the extent of the conversation and, as far as Wash was concerned, the end of it. What else was there to say? He was keeping track of the dog tags. It was just another one of his duties as blue leader. Right?

 

Late that night after Wash had seen everyone head off to bed, he was sat on his bunk with the tags spilled out on the blanket before him. He just needed to double check the number he gave Tucker, and then he would get some sleep. Tonight for sure.

“Are you playing a game?”

Washington’s heart leapt into his throat. He went straight for the knife under his pillow and was on his feet in a fighting stance in an instant. Wash had to blink a few times before his brain returned a name for the figure in the doorway.

“Caboose,” Wash breathed, dipping the knife a hair. Swallowing down his instincts, he relaxed his stance enough to lower the knife to his side, but didn’t drop it. “You can’t sneak up on me like that.”

The blue soldier was unfazed. “What’s that?” He pointed at the pile of tags reflecting the moonlight.

Wash opened his mouth to respond but immediately shut it again. Caboose was already mourning the loss of his best friend. The cheerful sim trooper didn’t need this added weight on his shoulders.

“Is it a game?” Caboose asked. He continued in a slow voice, a touch too loud for the time of night. “Because if it is a game and someone is playing it, then they should invite their very good friend who also likes playing games.”

Washington sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not a game, buddy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Oh,” Caboose said, dropping his head, “okay.”

Wash felt a pang of guilt run through him. Setting aside the knife, he took a seat on the edge of the bed. “What are you doing up?” As he spoke he slid the metal box over the assortment of tags, hiding them away.

Caboose looked down as his hands fiddled with the edge of his light blue t-shirt. “I was sad.” He replied. “And it’s hard to sleep when you’re sad, because then your dreams are sad, and then you’re even more sad…”

Wash didn’t know how to respond to that. He cleared his throat. “Oh.”

Looking up, Caboose cocked his head. “Is that why you’re awake so much?”

Wash felt his throat close up. He didn’t know how Caboose did it: find the words with such ease – the words that bury themselves straight in Wash’s heart. Caboose was effortlessly the most perceptive out of all of them. It was easy to forget.

“It’s something like that,” Wash told him, dropping his gaze to the blanket.

Caboose nodded understandingly. He pointed at the bed again. “What is it?”

“It’s just… something I have to do.”

“What _do_ you have to do?”

Washington resigned himself to defeat and slid away the box to reveal the dog tags. “Count them. I finished so now–”

Wash froze. Because he had finished counting them, and there were one hundred thirty-two just like he told Tucker, but now he wasn’t sure. Maybe he counted one twice. Maybe two got stuck together.

He was jolted from his thoughts by Caboose dropping to sit cross legged on the floor beside the bed. He stared at the tags with interest.

“Why do you have to count them?”

Wash’s shoulders drooped and he ran his hands over his face. “To make sure the number’s right,” he said, Caboose’s open curiosity drawing the words from him. “I-I need to remember how many there are.”

Caboose nodded up at the Freelancer. “Okay.” He glanced back at the collection sat on the bed. “Sooo, how many do you have?”

Wash’s mouth went dry. He knew. Technically he knew. But he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t positive. And it would keep tormenting him until he was.

“I need– need–I have to double check.”

“Okay,” Caboose said, resting his head on his hands, and looking to Wash in expectation.

So Wash counted them. He didn’t speak, just placed each tag back in the box one by one, metal clicking against metal in a steady rhythm. Caboose didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound. Finally, when the last tag was in the box, Wash sat up with a sigh.

“How many?”

Wash looked down at the sim trooper. Caboose’s gaze was uncharacteristically intent.

“Um,” Wash’s gaze flickered to the now closed box. “One hundred thirty-two.”

“Oh good,” Caboose piped up cheerfully. “That was my number too.”

Washington blinked at the blue soldier. “…your number,” he said intelligently.

“I counted – just like you. And my number was one hundred thirty-two and your number was one hundred thirty-two, so we are double sure that is the right number, and if this was a game we would win.”

There was a stinging behind Wash’s eyes, but his shoulders felt lighter. Caboose was positively beaming at him, and it took Wash a few moments to realize there was a smile creeping across his own face in response.

“Yeah, buddy, we win.”

 

The next morning was routine, just like every morning was at the crash site. Routine for blue team that is. It didn’t seem like the reds knew the meaning of the word. Distant explosions and vehicle noises were carried on the morning breeze, becoming background noise for the blues running their laps around the canyon. Wash made a mental note to retrieve his tools from Sarge. And to find a better hiding place for them.

After their run, the blues returned to base. Soon they had traded armor for fatigues and gathered in the kitchen (space connected to the rations closet). Tucker hovered over the coffee pot while Caboose and Washington sat at the table (dented length of sheet metal balanced on a crate).

Caboose was explaining, in great detail, the importance of a strange rock he’d found, though it was hard to be sure around his mouthful of food. Tucker meanwhile, was doing his best to fall asleep leaning against the counter. His quiet snores intermingled with the gurgle of the coffee pot.

Staring down at his coffee cup, Wash let the dull noises of his team wash over him. He planned for them to get some training done today. Caboose was having one of his better days, his usual chipper self returning, so maybe he could join in. After that, the ration numbers could use looking over. Not to mention the communications tower still needed work, but key components were missing. They’d have to scour the wreckage for parts and that would require all hands on deck – particularly Caboose with his machine repair skills. Of course, a venture into the crashed ship would likely lead to finding more crew members and that meant –

Wash sat up. The tags. He’d completely forgotten –

“Wash?”

Blinking, Wash looked over to find Tucker eyeing him. Apparently, the teal soldier hadn’t been dozing.

“Hm?” Wash hummed intelligently.

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

Shit, was he that easy to read? This was why he preferred wearing armor.

“Yeah,” Wash answered, sliding his coffee cup away. “Yeah.” He stood up from the table. “Meet outside in fifteen. In armor. We’ll be running the obstacle course.”

Wash marched out of the kitchen before anyone could answer. Back in his room, he found the tin box sat on the floor beside his bed. He must have left it there after Caboose’s visit last night. Wash sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, placing the box beside him. Running his thumb over a charred edge, he opened it. The steely contents stared up at him.

“So that’s it?”

Wash started, hand flying to the knife at his waistband. He looked up to find Tucker in the doorframe, hands raised in surrender.

“Whoa, right, bad idea – should’ve knocked, sorry.” The teal soldier kept his eyes on the blade, and Wash felt a stab of guilt.

Washington dropped his hand from the knife and blew out a breath. “No, it’s fine.” He wasn’t about to explain how this was one of his good days, how this reaction compared to when Caboose startled him the night before.

Wash reached out to close the tin. “What’s up?”

Tucker shifted on his feet. “That’s it,” he stated blandly.

Wash furrowed his brow and Tucker gestured with his head to the box in front of the Freelancer. Wash glanced down at the box, then back to Tucker.

“The dog tags,” Tucker said finally, “from the crash.”

Oh.

“Yeah,” Wash admitted, dropping his gaze.

“What are you doing with them?”

“I thought it was better to have them all in one place. In case – when they find us.”

“Okay,” Tucker said, leaning against the doorframe. “But – just, what are _you_ doing with them?”

Wash swallowed and narrowed his gaze. “Counting them?”

“I mean, why do you specifically have them?”

Wash was pretty sure he’d missed something. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Okay, admittedly, this is all dramatic as fuck, so I probably should have known you’d have them.” Wash pulled a scowl, but Tucker continued, “It’s just – well, you don’t need to.”

“Yes, I do,” Wash answered without thinking.

Tucker eyed him, crossing his arms. “Why?”

“It’s just – ” Wash huffed, agitation seeping into his voice, “it’s something I need to do, okay?”

“So what _are_ you doing?”

Wash stopped short. “Uh…” The thought of explaining it had his face heating up. “Double checking?”

“Double checking what? How many there are? Caboose mentioned playing a counting game last night.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, have you seen him today? This is the most… well, _Caboose_ he’s been in weeks.” Tucker looked pointedly at the tin. “Is that what’s got you all weird? Keeping track of the tags?”

“I haven’t been all weird,” Wash shot back.

Tucker just rolled his eyes. “So did the thing with Caboose help?”

“…What?”

“You’re worried about keeping track, right? He said you guys counted the same number or whatever.”

“Yeah.”

“One hundred thirty-two?”

Wash blinked owlishly at the sim trooper. Tucker just shrugged. “Yeah, I remember. You said it yesterday.” He abruptly dropped his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

“I have an idea,” Tucker snuck a glance up at Wash. “Can I…?” Tucker had a hand out towards the tin on the bed. His eyes locked on Wash’s – asking for permission.

Wash could only nod. As he lifted the box and held it out, Tucker seemed to relax a bit. The sim trooper approached and took it in both hands.

“Here,” Tucker said, jerking his head towards the door before leaving the room. Wash found himself following.

The teal soldier lead them into the common area (open room behind the kitchen filled with crates acting as seats). Caboose sat on the floor, wearing only half his armor. He was using crayons to color what appeared to be a singed emergency procedure leaflet. As Tucker and Wash walked in, the blue sim trooper smiled at them before returning to his work.

“Alright,” Tucker announced and Wash looked back at the teal soldier. Tucker placed the tin box atop a tall crate pressed up against the wall.

He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Caboose, come over here a minute, will you?”

“Okay!” The chipper soldier was at Washington’s side in an instant. “Are we playing a game?”

Wash said, “No.” at the same time Tucker said, “Yes.”

Tucker snorted and gave a smirk before moving on to address them.

“Here’s how this’ll work. Every time tags get added to the box, we all learn the new number. That way, if one of us forgets, someone will always remember.” Tucker looked straight at Wash. “How’s that sound?”

Caboose bounced up and down. “I like it!”

Tucker told the blue soldier to get the rest of his armor on, and Caboose soon bounded away to do just that.

Tucker’s gaze returned to Washington, and the Freelancer found his throat tightening.

Wash pretended to inspect something on the floor. Finally, he spoke. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know, dude.”

Wash felt Tucker’s elbow nudge his arm and looked up.

The teal soldier smiled softly. “It’s just something we all have to do.”

Washington snorted, trying to hold back the laughter that hit him all at once. “And _you_ call _me_ dramatic!”

Tucker threw up his hands. “I was quoting you, asshole!” He shoved the Freelancer’s shoulder. “Go grab your armor and shit before I beat you outside for the first time ever.”

“You’re not dressed yet either.”

“I’ll be quick…” Tucker blinked. “Wait. No, that’s– ”

“ –Bow-chika-bow-wow?”

“You know what? Fuck off.”

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, every time I've written Wash in longer fics he gets hung up on numbers, whether it be keeping track of rations at the crash site or counting dog tags. I don't know why, it just happened that way. I'm rolling with it. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr at [ wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)


End file.
